


The Way Out

by kineticallyanywhere



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Isolation, Post Season 5, Post Season 8, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sleep Deprivation, Wash is doin pretty good actually, for Tucker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-05-20 10:14:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19374646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kineticallyanywhere/pseuds/kineticallyanywhere
Summary: After the most traumatic event of his military experience, Agent Washington was evaluated, discharged, transferred to Young Veterans Recovery Services, treated, reevaluated, and reinstated.Private Lavernius Tucker was not.(My take, perhaps of a warm temperature, on Tucker, and on Tucker and Wash's relationship. Tucker PoV: Covers events from the end of Season 8 through Carolina's recruitment of the Reds and Blues, as well as Tucker's missing time between seasons 5 and 7.)





	1. A Story

There's this story, about a guy who falls down a hole. 

\---

You can't feel temperature through space marine armor. It regulates itself to whatever you happen to be in the mood for, or whatever keeps you healthy, or to as cold as it can get while attempting to operate in a desert for four months straight. It's computer regulated, so it knows better than the person inside it what the best temperature _should_ be. 

All that to say, Tucker's suit keeps him at a right cozy seventy three degrees Fahrenheit while he's standing knee deep in snow and Tucker is _cold_. He's been sweating his actual ass off for months. Existing at a temperature below eighty should be the best day of his horrible life, and instead he's _cold_ because at some point his body caved in and actually adjusted to the approximate temperature of Satan's ass.

All _that_ to say, Tucker is not in the best mood as he tosses his rifle into the back of a UNSC warthog, and it's not just because one of the best friends he's ever had fucked off without a word... again _._ When he hears Caboose call, "Wash, come on!" his will to exist drops from "might as well" to "please remind me why." If he's going to have to deal with Michael Jackass Caboose again, he _cannot_ do it while pulling someone else along. The _least_ the universe can do for him at this point is give him a proactive teammate.

When he turns over his shoulder to see Agent Washington is standing still and staring pensively in the other direction, he groans hard enough to scratch his throat. Tucker feels one of his last ounces of patience fall out of his mouth. There's not even anything to _look at_ over there. Grif gave him a heads up that the new guy's a bit of a drama queen, but what is he _doing?_ _Gazing into the future_ or some shit? 

"Stop staring, start _moving_ , let's _go!_ " He finds himself calling out loud. Not that they know where they're going, other than "the general direction the Reds' hornet flew off in, because why not." They're supposed to go back to their assigned bases and wait out until the UNSC can finish cleaning up the freelancer mess, but they also figure it doesn't actually matter which bases they end up at. According to Agent Washington, this planet is covered in sim bases -- and facilities with warp doors that lead to sim bases -- so they could head in any direction and hit a base eventually. Even Blood Gulch. 

Caboose bounds the last few paces to the warthog (the snow doesn't come _close_ to his knees). Wash doesn't even turn in their direction. At least they don't need to be facing each other to be heard, with the radios and all. 

"We should take two," Wash says. 

"Two what?" Tucker asks, and another fuck leaves his grasp. This better not be a metaphor for starting over. Tucker doesn't have room in his energy stores for metaphors. 

"Two warthogs."

Before Tucker can open his mouth, Caboose shouts, "I'll drive!" and all but dives into the warthog parked next to the one Tucker hasn't even stepped into yet. 

"What for?" Tucker asks Washington. "We'll all fit in one."

Wash finally turns around and _finally_ makes it to the jeeps. "Just a feeling," he says. 

He gets into the warthog that Tucker is driving, so Tucker at least knows that he doesn't have a death wish. 

\---

_They were alone, when they first got to the desert. Well, alone in that it was just Tucker, Junior, and the combination human-Sangheili squad he was deployed with. It was pretty chill, as far as deserts could be, but they'd just come from Sanghelios and being a human on that planet is anything_ but _chill. On the way to the temple, he and Junior had some poetic father-son bonding over some sick sunsets, humans and aliens 'oohed' and 'aahed' his sword, and he got to flex for some lady soldiers and scientists. It wasn't their first tour out digging up some artifacts, but Tucker hoped they'd find something cooler than just "big rock," "fancy old scribbles," or "space cube."_

_Tucker spent most of the trip not attempting to learn traditional Sangheili -- he can understand Junior, and Junior understands them, so who cares? -- and waving his sword around to make things glow wherever he was told. Sometimes he helped drive the jeeps or dig up stray rocks because it was something to do, but the others understood that he was multitasking all of this with single fatherhood and didn't get onto him about how much he just sat around. When they did ask, he informed them, importantly, that alien energy swords in the hands of humans do not invent their own fighting styles. His instructor on Sanghelios had helped a lot, but their arms just don't bend the same way. All of the swinging of his sword he did outside the camp sites was strictly in the interest of developing viable combat strategy._

_It had almost nothing to do with the little excited noises Junior made when he almost landed that flip with it._

_It definitely had nothing to do with the fact that, while the desert air was consistently halfway to boiling acid, every mile they took away between them and the temple gave him goosebumps. If Tucker personally caused a delay in the caravan (by, say, accidentally throwing his sword into a tire that would take a day to change) it had everything to do with fatherhood or exhaustion from sword practice and nothing to do with trying to stall._

_One of Tucker's guards -- the one with the snake tattoo on his face that covered an absolutely_ sick _scar -- called him out on it, once. He didn't make fun of him for it. He figured it was just Tucker's connection to all the alien stuff. That maybe he and the temple recognized each other or something. (Snake Face was real fun at parties.)_

_"Nah, it's none of that," Tucker told him. "I don't know, it's just a feeling."_

\---

They find the Reds' crashed hornet about ten miles out. They're all fine, of fucking course. Blue Team gives the second warthog to the Reds in exchange for humiliating Simmons, and Caboose hops into the newly dubbed "Blue Hog." Simmons calls shotgun and looks baffled when no one contests it. Grif drives, and Sarge sits in the back seat to prop his feet up on Grif's head.

While in the air, the Reds had spotted two dots that looked a lot like sim trooper bases some miles out. So, their driving direction gets more specific, at least. It also gets more dangerous, because while Caboose driving on his own is concerning, Sarge trying to egg them into a game of bumper cars is worse. 

They drive through the night and out of the snow. The climates on this planet are complete nonsense, so by nightfall the roadside is green and the readout on Tucker's HUD puts the outside temperature above seventy five degrees. They can't pull over without Sarge forcing Grif to gun it, so Tucker gets Caboose to take his helmet off while he's still driving. Simmons' helmet isn't far behind. Grif's comes off at the next pitstop. 

Wash spends a solid hour running HUD scans on their empty surroundings (field, tree, cliff, tree, lots of trees, field) before his comes off. Every few hours he puts it on again, just to be sure. Caboose tells Wash he'll keep an ear and an eye out for him, as if that's comforting somehow. The low-key paranoia actually gets _Tucker_ scanning around a few times, before he catches himself. It's not like he's willing to give one of his last precious fucks about the new guy going back to jail. 

But then Wash says, "Thanks, Caboose."

And Caboose says, "That's what party members are for."

And Tucker _tentatively_ considers laying a fuck on the table. 

\---

_They weren't the first ones to reach the temple. When the spire finally came in sight and their caravan pulled over the last dune, warthogs and mongooses (mongeese?) and even a fucking behemoth were swarmed around the temple. Tucker, perhaps riding a little high on the title of Inter-species Ambassador Extraordinaire, offered his compatriots a smooth, "I got this," and marched down the dune._

_Explaining all the ways in which Tucker did not "got this" would be a waste of everyone's time. As he would be lectured by his guards later: "Tactless approach of the armed and unidentified," "complete inconsideration for maintaining advantages," "poor ability to dodge bullets," blah blah blah, everything worked out okay. Whoever built the armor for Blue Army did a hell of a job, and all the proper "Cease fire"s and "We come in peace"s were exchanged._

_The troops already surrounding the temple sent out their commander, a guy in brown armor with white Military Police accents and a funky helmet, and Tucker's caravan sent Snake Face to meet him. Turned out they were all different UNSC branches whose bosses sucked at communicating with each other. Everyone was on the same side. They could work together._

_As the two teams started to mingle, the commander approached Tucker directly._

_"Sorry about that shitty first impression," he said. "I'm still working the itchy trigger finger out of some of my men. They got a jumpy when you pulled out that sword."_

_"Bow chicka-bow wow."_

_"What?"_

He'll learn, _Tucker assured himself._ They all learn.

_"Don't sweat it," Tucker tells him, fully intending to make him sweat about it later. He bet there were some serious goods to be traded in the form of human cuisine in their storage. Tucker probably would have committed treason for a hotdog. For the moment, he held out a hand. "I'm Tucker."_

_The commander shook it. "CT."_

_The temple doors opened to the sound of applause._


	2. Some Money

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In hindsight, Tucker should have known the whole thing was headed south. Oh, there were the "obvious" tells: conversations whispered in his direction, new limits on where he could go or what he could do alone, getting asked fifty questions one minute and ignored the next. He'd come to expect those things, though, ever since someone first believed in his pregnancy long enough to run the DNA test. Those aren't the things Tucker kicks himself for later._

A rich man comes by, and tosses him some money.

\---

The Reds switch drivers a few times, but like _hell_ Tucker is going to trust Caboose with his life. Washington is still flinching in pain every other time he moves, so he's a no-go. Tucker's not tired, anyway. 

Wash and Simmons have been in and out of sleep most of the night. Simmons twitches in his sleep. Wash sleeps like the dead; it's probably the painkillers from his healing thing. At some hellish hour of the morning, Sarge gets caught up in a conversation with Caboose that's impossible to follow and remain sane. To keep either of them from falling out, Tucker and Grif hit cruise control at a slightly less lethal speed and drive as close to each other as they're willing to dare. 

Simmons leans over the gap. Just loud enough to talk over the engines (and their teammates) he asks, "Is this really okay?" He glances to Tucker's passenger seat where Wash is sleeping. Probably. It's hard to tell.

Tucker isn't sure what he's referring to. "Is there something we're _not_ okay with?"

Well over the noise of the engines (and their teammates) he says, "He killed Donut!"

Washington supports his own case by looking mildly surprised and asking a groggy, "Who?"

Simmons has already gotten loud enough to get the attention of everyone, so doesn't bother keeping his voice down anymore. "The pink guy!"

The realization on Wash's face is slow. "Oh! That guy." Then he says, "I only shot him once," as if Simmons is being unfair somehow. 

" _We're not real soldiers_ , remember?" Grif says. It sounds like he's feeding Wash's words back to him. It hits Tucker, not for the first time, that he missed Agent Washington's inaugural road trip. Grif says, "We're not Freelancers, either. We don't spice our breakfasts with bullets." 

"I _know_ you're not freelancers," Wash retorts. Keeping track of the verbal tennis match is hard while driving. " _The people running the program_ knew you're not freelancers. Why do you think the recovery mode on your armor sets functions so well?"

Sarge says, "The what?" Tucker has to consciously keep his eyes on the road to keep from giving Wash the same baffled look the others are definitely giving him. 

"It's virtually impossible to kill someone in sim trooper armor," Wash explains. He sits up in his seat and turns to better face the Red Hog. "You think the real people they tossed Freelancers at could be taken out with a single shot? They wouldn't be very effective simulations if you all went down that easily, and it's not like we were looking at an endless supply of sim troopers. The technology makes the suits less efficient, long-term, but you could shoot someone in the head in one of those things--" he points at Sarge and Caboose, still fully armored "--and they'd live to tell about it."

Simmons and Grif both turn to Sarge, who says, "Huh." Tucker feels like there's a story there somewhere.

Caboose says, "That explains a lot."

Wash keeps going for dramatic emphasis, because of course he does. "You'd have to hurl a stake -- or something else that would shatter internally in impact -- with the force a speeding _tank_ straight through a sim-trooper's _chest_ in order to actually kill one. Or... toss them into a waterfall of lava, or... something."

Tucker has felt a lot of ways about his armor before. He's been grateful, he's been annoyed, he's been downright pissed. He wouldn't have expected this to be the moment for him to kind of hate it. Not for keeping him alive, or keeping the others alive. He hates it because--

Why does he hate it?

Simmon's pulls Tucker out of his thoughts. "So Donut's _alive?_ " he asks.

"Probably." Then Wash looks away and looks at least a tad guilty. Eventually he winces. "How long ago was that?"

No one actually looks like they're going to follow that up. Grif says, "Oh."

"Do you..." Wash starts, when no one else does. "Do you want to go back for him?"

In perfect unison, the Reds say, "No, we're good."

\---

_In hindsight, Tucker should have known the whole thing was headed south. Oh, there were the "obvious" tells: conversations whispered in his direction, new limits on where he could go or what he could do alone, getting asked fifty questions one minute and ignored the next. He'd come to expect those things, though, ever since someone first believed in his pregnancy long enough to run the DNA test. Those aren't the things Tucker kicks himself for later._

_The_ real _red flags should have been the dusty temple: the eroded carvings, the piles of forgotten artifacts, the lines of energy in the walls which would light up when Tucker activated his sword. Tucker has sat through more than twenty minutes of an Indiana Jones movie. Those are the signs he should have seen._

_Then there was the culmination of those two things: the Temple defense system test._

_Tucker's caravan team worked with the excavation team to dig up and dust off as much of it as they could before they even considered attempting to activate it. It would colossally suck to get everyone caught up in it, after all. Days into the excavation, someone got impatient._

_Tucker wasn't kept in the loop on all the science stuff, really. Not that he'd cared to be. When they made all the impressed honks and dragged some sweet alien motor-cycle to let him crash-- drive around, he was all over it. Ancient linguistics and logistical circuit whatsahoosits yada-yada? Snore fest. And_ most _of this mission seemed to be occupied by snore fest. So, when someone approached him and told him it was finally time to turn something on, he jumped at it. Hanging out with Junior was great and all, but the kid was getting restless, too._

_One of the scientists, some guy with goatee from CT's team, led him up to a large circular pattern carved into the wall, asked him to stand in a spot and light up his sword, and he did._

_Tucker woke up two hours later. Junior was frantic. Didn't let go of him for hours. He found out later that the thing in the wall had projected goddamn radiation laser beams through the whole hallway. It was a miracle Junior wasn't hit. Tucker wasn't hit directly, and his suit protected him from the radiation._

_Luckily, scientists love failure. Even before Tucker woke up, there was a swarm of them taking notes and sniffing the charred sand and scribbling potential rune meanings._

_They were more careful after that, though. They dedicated maps and grids and guides to likely triggers for traps. Everyone had to memorize them, even and_ especially _Tucker. It was something to do, so Tucker approached the whole debacle with only mild complaining._

_At least, until he caught Junior staying up in the middle of the night, studying the maps. Junior knew them better than he did (Kid's a genius, really), but then Junior admitted he couldn't sleep. He didn't want to be wrong. He didn't want to lose his dad._

_Tucker didn't want to lose his kid. So, that night, he made a decision._

_(Tucker realized later, much later, that the last he saw of goatee guy was a dark look lit by a blast of alien light.)_

\---

He should have known after the first set of bases what was coming. 

They find them in a small forest: Red Base on the west side, Blue Base on the east. In the middle of the woods between them, a clearing. They all know (Sarge knows) that the entire Red vs Blue conflict was made up. They spend the first night in that clearing between the bases. They park the warthogs on either side of the clearing, and sleep between them, taking turns on night watch. No sim troopers try to ambush them.

The next day, they go into the bases (Tucker, Grif, and Simmons to one, Sarge, Caboose, and Wash to the other) but they're empty. Either they've already been collected by the UNSC, or they figured out the hoax on their own and left, or maybe they were all eaten by some strange beast, still lurking in the trees and waiting to suck their spines from their backs ("Shut up, Sarge.")

However it happened, one thing is clear (to Sarge): this battlefield had no victor. 

Most people (Tucker, Simmons, Grif, Wash, probably Caboose) would see that as a good thing. Sarge is not most people. Sarge sees a single unclaimed victory for the Red Team and wonders how many more there are, on this planet and on many subsequent planets. If they can reach an untold ("Seventy three," Wash says) number of unclaimed and uncontested bases, and they have literally nothing better to be doing, is it not their right-- _nay_ , their _duty_ to see this conflict through to the final victor?

"No," most people say.

And, yet, they have nothing better to do. 

As soon as Blue Team is in Blue Base and Red Team is in Red Base, Washington asks, "So, Tucker, what's the plan?"

Tucker stops on his route to the couch he just spotted. "What? Why are you asking me?"

Wash shrugs. "Are you not the leader, here?"

Tucker opens his mouth (to say what, he doesn't know) but Caboose interjects with a loud, "HA" and whatever Tucker was (not) going to say doesn't matter anymore. 

"Yeah. I've got a plan. Caboose is gonna charge the front of the base and distract them, and we're gonna go around back and grab the flag." Tucker whips out his sword (bow chicka bow wow) for dramatic flair. "Easy as Grif's snack cakes."

It's a good plan. A plan that's worked before for getting things like Grif's "secret" chip collection and Sarge's WD40 (for Church's joints). It's a plan the Reds have never been able to replicate (to get the WD40 back for Simmons' joints). 

Caboose hefts his rifle and says, "Oh! I'm very good at this game!"

But Agent Washington just hums. 

Oh, man, this guy is gonna be a problem. "What?" Tucker asks. 

"Nothing, it's just." He pauses. It is clearly not "just." "It's not a great plan."

"I thought so, too," Caboose says quietly, because he has no sense of loyalty. 

Tucker ignores him. "So what _is_ a great plan, Mr. Spec Ops?"

Washington clearly doesn't want to over step, but immediately does anyway. "Well, we're not in an empty box canyon, or wherever you've been the last year."

"The desert."

"That makes sense," Wash says like he's putting a piece together. But Tucker can't see his puzzle board and has no idea what the other pieces are. It's kind of intimidating (and really badass).

"We're in a forest, with trees everywhere," Wash continues, "and our bases have enormous holes in the roofs. So-- well..." Wash hesitates. It's the most uncertainty Tucker's seen out of the man so far, besides the Donut thing. Whatever his hang up is, he decides to move past it. Still, he winces and says like an admission, "Have you guys seen any of the Star Wars movies?"

Memes do not die in a world where 98% of interplanetary human connection takes place via the internet. "Of course I-- oh."

Caboose gasps. "Oh my god the high ground."

\---

_Junior loved the view of the sunset from the top of the temple (just like his dad). He'd deny it (just like his dad) but that didn't stop Tucker from taking a picture of it every evening to send to him. At least, every evening that he could. Which wasn't many._

_Splitting the caravan to send Junior to rep to the outskirt colony was the right decision. They needed some help out there, and Junior could offer it. Besides, it was way safer out there than in the temple. He'd be with a majority Sangheili group, too. Tucker knew it was a post-war time, and adjustments still needed to happen, but he didn't like the way some of the human soldiers looked at his kid. Tucker wasn't afraid to call people out on it. Three days after Junior left, up on the roof under the sunset, Tucker brought it up to CT._

_"It's an adjustment," CT parroted to him for the millionth time. "They're getting used to us, too."_

_"Yeah, yeah," Tucker said. He got the good picture of the clouds he wanted and sat down on the edge of the roof. "I get they're not all horrible assholes for it. Church was always talking about putting a bullet through my kid, too, but we were still friends."_

_"Church?" CT asked._

_"Old teammate," Tucker explained. "Couldn't have landed on a shot on Junior if he tried, though. Can't shoot for shit. Probably why Blue Army dumped him in a hole in the middle of nowhere."_

_CT went quiet. Usually that meant he was done talking, but this time he started up again. "Blue Army, huh? You mean with that whole... Red vs. Blue conflict?"_

_"Yeah, all that bullshit." Tucker preferred not to reflect on it too much. The more he did, the less it made sense._ None _of his Blood Gulch experience made any sense. If he hadn't gotten pregnant out of it, he'd probably write it off as some psychotic break he had for years of his life. Whatever the hell went down there, it wasn't his problem anymore._

 _The stars poked out of the dark parts of the sky. Junior would have loved it. Tucker snapped another picture with his helmet. He knew Junior was so,_ so, _much safer away from here. Still, Tucker hadn't realized how hard it would be to let him go. The last sad sniffle Junior made before leaving was still stuck in his ear like a worm. If Tucker cried, too, he muted his helmet so that no one could hear it._

If _he'd cried, of course, which cool masculine alien ambassadors don't do._

_CT was silent for a long time after that, just standing and thoughtfully staring at where the sun had just disappeared. Tucker had nothing to say about anything, so he let it drag on. Then CT asked, "You ever meet any of those Freelancers?"_

_"Yeah, a couple." Tucker's hand found the hilt of his sword. He rolled it across the stone top, absently. "One of 'em tried to off me, but we took care of him."_

_CT sounds impressed. "You killed a Freelancer?"_

(You killed.)

_"Hell, yeah." Tucker tried to drum up the energy from the victory to cheer himself up. It only kind of worked. It felt more like replacing one bad feeling for another. He sighed. "Apparently that one was a particularly rogue asshole. Tex helped, I guess."_

_"Agent Texas?"_

_"Yeah." Tucker wanted to hate Tex for kidnapping his kid, but she hadn't_ always _sucked, and he heard the android she was in was found with the crashed ship. Who knew if she was even still out there somewhere. Church was a moron, but Tucker never got the chance to ask if she, at least, knew she was an AI. Whoever programmed her probably prioritized the whole ‘saving humanity at all costs’ thing. Maybe she didn't even have a choice about kidnapping Junior. "She wasn't so bad," he decided._

_CT is quiet again. "I see," he finally says._

_Tucker has a number of automatic responses. Most people do. Everyone is just another one of Paolo's (Panama? No, it was Russian, right? Pavlov’s?) dogs. For most people it's a cereal box or a girl's voice or the doorbell ringing. For a lot of soldiers, it's gun-related sounds, like a safety turning off or a magazine reloading. Tucker is not most soldiers. As the sole survivor of Being on Caboose's Team, the tiny sound of a magnetic holster detaching is enough._

_Tucker rolls to the side, and the stone edge where he was just sitting sparks with rifle fire. He stops at a kneel and looks up at CT, who lowers his gun with a sigh._

_"We'll do it like this, then," CT says, darkly._

_"Man, what the fuck!"_

_CT snaps his rifle back up -- Tucker lunches forward. The humans Tucker has seen try to go for the legs always end up flat on their own stomachs. When the Sangheili do it, they keep one foot under them, twist their shoulder behind their opponent's knees, and trip them forward. The only combat instructor Tucker ever contemplated the time of day for had more than one jaw and tricked him into believing he was teaching Tucker alien sex positions, so CT tumbled forward, right off the edge of the roof._

_A practiced Sangheili warrior would be able to push right to their feet. Tucker stutter-stepped and balanced himself on his hands. He decided he wasn't going to fall at the same time he heard the_ thump _from the sand below._

_Oh no._

_Slowly, unsure if he wanted to see what he might see, Tucker leaned forward to look over the edge. Stories down, a brown figure rolled over in the sand. For a moment Tucker was relieved, and then it all caught up to him._

_"What the fuck!" he shouted again. He realized they both have their helmets on and were speaking through their mics, but he can't stop shouting. "You were gonna kill me!"_

_Below, CT staggered to his feet. Holy shit how did some archaeological dig watch-guard get armor that sturdy? From this distance, Tucker could see CT bring a hand to the HUD controller on the side of his helmet. The joint team's communication channel clicked on._

_CT didn't respond to Tucker. Instead, he ordered to everyone, "All units advise: Ambassador Tucker should be considered hostile and dangerous. Armed personal ordered to shoot on sight."_

_Tucker's own hand shot up to his helmet to activate his mic to the channel. "_ Excuse me? _"_

_Immediately, before Tucker could finish screeching, a soldier responded. "What happened?" they asked. Tucker recognized Snake Face's voice._

_CT got words out first. "He just made an attempt on my life, we're lucky my armor is built for long falls."_

_Fury worked up Tucker's throat._ He's not a killer _\-- how could he--?_ _There was-- Wyoming, sure, but--_

_His chest hurt. He doesn't know how he managed to get out the words, "He tried to kill me first!"_

_"Don't listen to him!" CT shouted over him. "He's working for a rogue program from the war--"_

_The feed cut out. Tucker tried to get back into the frequency, but his HUD buzzed error messages. He'd been kicked out._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Off screen later, Wash calls Doc about swinging back by Valhalla. Just to cover all bases. He probably hears back in the form of a voicemail which he opens about 30 seconds before Sarge kicks in the door to Blue Base attempting to duel wield shotguns. I L O V E Donut. but the dudes are legit guilty of having glossed over him for this entire time period, and this is the softest version of that blow I could snag while being canon compliant.)


	3. An Explanation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a storm coming in off the coast. They'll move in the night, when the worst of it passes. Wash tells Tucker to get some rest while he keeps watch outside. If the team fugitive was going to kill them in their sleep he would have done it a week ago, so Tucker takes the free Zs. 
> 
> Well, he tries to.

A doctor comes by and tells him how he fell. 

\---

Wash helps Tucker rappel down into Red Base from the trees, while, at the front door, Caboose sings very loudly about the benefits of metallic friends (this sparks an ongoing argument between Grif and Simmons that Tucker does not care about). The Red flag is in Blue Base before dinner and is burned in effigy. They burn the Blue flag, too. Mostly so they can have a fire that Sarge is willing to eat roasted MREs from, but also because fuck Blue Army, too. 

These bases don't have teleporters, but they do have alarming amounts of gasoline. While they load as much of it as they can into and onto the warthogs, Simmons lectures everyone on woodland fire safety for the eighth time in three days. Wash actually encourages him by adding to and supporting some of his points (and correcting others). Everyone (but Simmons) hates this and tells him so in their own ways. 

"Oh god, please stop."

"You're just gonna make his head bigger."

"Yeah... Simmons already has trouble getting his helmet to fit. I'd offer mine but, uh... It's blue."

"Yeah, Wash, save your energy. For your _timely defeat!_ "

They hit the road again. 

\---

_Tucker didn't reach the bottom of the ramp before he heard shooting. Muzzle flashes lit up the dark corners of the halls. There was an abbreviated scream._

_Tucker doesn't remember a lot of details as to what happened next._

_The red soaked into the sand would get turned over and scattered. The bodies would get tossed down the mysterious dark pit they'd found deep in the temple. The dreams would fade and blur into every other weird dream he's had since the first time he watched Church explode._

_In the middle of it all, Tucker wasn't completely alone. CT swung almost every Sangheili soldier to his side with bullshit about blasphemy and broken prophecies. Tucker couldn't find his guard soldiers from the caravan they'd arrived with. It took seeing a masked soldier march over a terrified, cowering, guy in a bloody excavation coat for him to remember:_

Hey, I'm a soldier, too.

_He remembers ending up with a flock of scientists. They cried to him about the_ real _prophecies, and his chosen one-ness, and_ blah blah blah. _They looked at him like he could do something, like he could save them. He was more than ready to let them down, hard, but then--_

("Stupid Tucker.")

_Of all the vital pieces of events to lose from that day, he's not sure how he came to the conclusion:_ I will not be the team-killing fuck-tard. 

_(He'll remember, later, much later, how much blue the archaeologists were wearing.)_

_He tried to get them deeper into the temple, where he could lock a door with his sword. "To buy time," he's sure he said at some point. But he didn't know the halls as well as he should have. (As well as Junior would have.) He rounded a corner with four or five bloodied guys in stained lab gear right into a waiting execution line up._

_Tucker didn't give a shit about CT's guys. If he saw any of them again (as if that were possible) he's sure he wouldn't recognize any of them. But catching sight of the sick snake face-tattoo on CT's side of the line-up burned itself into Tucker's memory in a microsecond._

_CT started prattling on about something. "Blah blah not sorry, blah blah see Tex in hell." (In hindsight, what was his hangup with Tex?) Tucker couldn't take his eyes off Snake Face, with a gun leveled at Tucker at half a dozen scrawny, scared nerds. It was the only reason he noticed Snake Face's eyes snapping between him and the wall._

_The etched wall._

_Tucker shouted, "Down!" pivoted on one foot, shoved his sword into the wall carving, and dropped. He doesn't remember if he closed his eyes. If he did, it didn't do any good against the light that shot from every corner of stone. Before the light could burn out, someone grabbed him by the shoulders and started hauling him away._

\---

Blue Team wins the next four bases in less than a day, each. They change up who's the distraction (even Wash takes a turn) and come at the Reds from above, below, and backwards (that one was fun). 

At location five, in sand covered bases on a cold beach, Caboose gets captured. The Reds demand the Blue Flag and the win in exchange. Tucker is ready to hand it to them, but apparently Agent Washington doesn't give to fear tactics. 

"It's not fear tactics," Tucker tells him. "If anything, I'm afraid for the _Reds_. They have _Caboose._ " Agent Stick-Up-My-Ass Washington doesn't find this funny. 

Still, they have nothing better to do.

There's a storm coming in off the coast. They'll move in the night, when the worst of it passes. Wash tells Tucker to get some rest while he keeps watch outside. If the team fugitive was going to kill them in their sleep he would have done it a week ago, so Tucker takes the free Zs. 

Well, he tries to. 

He gets comfortable in the base, which is pretty easy considering how used to sand he still is, and he closes his eyes and he just doesn't sleep. He's got a perfectly good sand pillow, he's perfectly exhausted, and perfectly awake. He realizes his heart is racing. He tries some of Donut's breathing techniques, where he breaths in for however many counts, and out for however many counts. He counts Sheilas, he finds somewhere else to lay down, hell, he even jogs around the base a few times. The base is empty but for the sand, the roar of the rain, and Tucker making long, bored noises for as long as he can. (63 seconds. New record.)

He contemplates counting grains of sand. He wonders if this is what picking back up a once-laid fuck feels like. 

He wonders what Caboose is doing. Sleeping, probably. If not, he's talking to whoever the Reds put on guard duty. Unless that person is Grif, then they're all definitely sleeping. 

When he hears the rain start to let up, he shoves his helmet on and climbs the roof before Wash can come to get him. 

Wash is crouched in a vantage point mostly hidden from the ground. Wash isn't an easy read, or at least he doesn't vocalize his every emotion like Church and the Reds, but he's startled when Tucker crouches next to him. Tucker's pretty sure he gives him a once over, as if he can see through Tucker's armor. Tucker keeps his shoulders from slumping. 

"Did you get any sleep?" Wash asks. 

Tucker can't decide whether or not to lie in the two seconds he has to not make it awkward, so he offers a neutral, "Sure." If Wash wants to read sarcasm into it, that's his business. "Time to get Caboose back?"

"Yeah," Wash says. He takes his rifle off it's perch but doesn't stand up yet. He pauses, dramatically, instead. Then he says, "Tucker, can I ask you something?"

"What's up?" Tucker says. He's too tired to be worried about what the Freelancer badass could possibly find curious about him. 

"What were you doing in the desert?"

Tucker wants to rub his eyes. "Killing bad guys," is what he says. It's not that he's not proud of, and usually ready to brag on, the whole ambassador thing, but right now he really just wants to beat up the Reds till he blacks out. "Can we go?"

"Sure."

\---

_Snake Face dragged him to safety. Snake Face covered the nerds and got them all deep into the temple._

_Eventually it got through Tucker's head that people were dead. It probably wasn't an exaggeration to say that_ most _of the people who'd come to the temple were dead. Tucker's pretty sure that, between the light show and wild swings of his sword, a significant percentage of those bodies belong to him._

_Tucker's a soldier. He went through basic training, and was stationed at a base for years, and even went on a space quest and defeated a mercenary. He killed that mercenary himself._ Tucker _did it. Tucker space-knifed a guy through the back to save his friends. Tucker space-lasered a bunch of psycho killers to save a bunch of scientists._

_He doesn't feel guilty. (Tucker did it.) It's not his fault. He didn't attack first._

_None of that mattered, in the moment. That wouldn't hit him until later._

_CT and his guys -- what was left of them, anyway -- pulled out of the Temple. They shut the doors behind them, trapping everyone else inside._

_As soon as Tucker could tell left from right again, he swung his sword on Snake Face, who dropped his rifle like a hot rock and held his hands up._

Apparently _he and several of the other soldiers in Tucker's caravan work ("_ Worked _," Snake Face insisted.) for the same guy._ Apparently _they were supposed to use Tucker to slip whatever artifacts they could right out from under the UNSC's nose._ Apparently _killing Tucker or Junior wasn't part of the plan, and CT went off on some sort of personal grudge._ Apparently _Snake Face doesn't care about the plan anymore, anyway._

_Apparently, he believes in what Tucker can do._

_Tucker doesn't stab him, at least._

_Snake Face, Tucker, and whoever was left (less than ten) gathered all the equipment they could find that wasn't broken, charrd, or dangerously radiated. It wasn't encouraging. The small mercy was that one of their guys was a communications technician._

_"We won't have long to get a message through before they cut off long-range signals," the soldier tells him. "We can only guarantee getting word to one place. We should contact Comm--"_

_Tucker didn't hesitate to interrupt. "My kid. Junior's crew."_

_"You want to contact Sangheili?" one of the scientists spat. The Sangheli in the room squawked offense._

_"An alien didn't just try to double tap me from behind." Tucker shoved the guy out of the way and started punching in the contact code for Junior's handlers. The call answered on the first ring; it was Junior, waiting on the other line. Fatherly instinct (he has that, apparently) kicked in. "Junior, what's wrong?"_

_Translating what Junior says into direct English sentences is never easy. He uses a lot of words that aren't English or Sangheili, and don't really have English translations. Tucker knows what he means, though, so it's chill._

_Apparently, when Junior arrived at the colony, the ambassadorial authority --good people, safe people, he's okay-- took Junior into their custody. Whatever record that previously existed of the caravan they went to the temple with was gone, now. As far as the UNSC was concerned, CT and Snake Face and all the others, all the excavators and scientists, don't exist._

_"Someone's cleaning up," Snake Face said._

_The Sangheili who took custody of Junior wouldn't let him make the call to Tucker to warn him. They couldn't risk tipping off the wrong people. He had to wait for Tucker to call_ him. _It's been_ days.

_Filling in Junior about his own situation was a pretty even trade of sucky information, they decided._

_A Sangheili ambassador took over, then. (This ambassador had bothered to learn a second language.) The colony could only spare to risk a single rescue ship. If they could hold the roof for just ten minutes, and on some miracle the ship wasn't shot out of the sky, they didn't all have to die that day. Tucker could get back with his kid again._

_But the last part had one condition: Junior would be taken into non-military protective custody. Like witness protection. Junior could grow to represent something huge in human-Sangheili relations, and in the last month he'd been nearly killed multiple times in the hands of corruption in the human organization tasked with his protection._

_"We can keep him safe," the ambassador promised. "Enroll him in Sangheili-human schooling, allow him to grow, no matter what side of his heritage he skews towards."_

_"That sounds great," Tucker says, because that sounds_ fucking _great. Yes. Hell yes. Get Junior out of all this. Get them both out of all of this._

_Then: "But it can't be with you."_

_And Tucker's entire circulatory system turned to solid lead._

_Tucker knows this ambassador a bit. Has worked with and talked with him, before. He's not an asshole. He's a great guy, really, just trying to find the best path for his people. He sounded apologetic, and Tucker knew he wasn’t fronting. "You have a target on you, Lavernius," he said. "One that has nothing to do with your connection to my people. I know you lo--"_

_"Will I get to say goodbye?" is all Tucker asked._

_Tucker looked away from the screen, but he hears the pity. "We'll have to transfer him within the week, but yes. Once we can extract you, you'll have some time. But, Lavernius, we cannot tell you where he'll be going. We can't risk--"_

_"Just send the rescue ship," Tucker told him._

_He left things to Snake Face from there. They coordinated landing zones and synchronized clocks and negotiated how much of the "very expensive, important, and vital equipment" to leave behind (all of it). Tucker didn't pay much attention to any of that. There was a fresh picture file of a sunset still sitting on the side of his HUD._

_"I'll stay behind," Snake Face offered. "Someone has to make sure they don't get at the artifacts in here until backup comes."_

_"You wanna trap yourself in a dusty hole just to watch over some ancient alien junk?" Tucker asked._

_"They're willing to kill for this junk," Snake Face said harshly. He jabbed Tucker in the chest plate with his finger and then pointed to his sword. "_ Your _junk. The sooner they get it, the sooner they come for you, too."_

_Tucker didn't argue with him any more. Not for lack of an argument._

His _junk? What, just because random chance threw a magic item at him the rest of it is his now, too? Suddenly this is all_ his _problem to solve?_

_Tucker couldn't find the stones to say "_ fuck off" _to the guy who'd just saved his life._

_He's sure Church would have._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to the angst portion.


	4. A Prayer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Tucker's not brave, not really. He looked this situation in the face and every cell in his body screamed "no fucking thanks." He's got a kid to look out for, after all. Fatherhood and shit. He_ didn't _have to stay._

A priest comes by and says a prayer for him.

\---

The score is sixteen to nothing (Blue) when they find the caves. 

Two bases -- Red and Blue, tucked into the sides of a mountain -- were not abandoned. Scattered around the ragged no man's land between them are seven dark, splattered stains in the rocks. At the bottom of a narrow cliff none of them dare climb is a pile of blue armor. There's a body in Blue Base wearing red, by a radio still making static. 

They light fires; they move on.

\---

_They had five hours between the end of the call and evac. Most of it was spent arguing a plan. How much cover fire can they give the ship? How much does it need? It was coming from a defensible angle, maybe they should just run at the last second. How long do they wait on the roof before it lands? It would give away their planned LZ, but they'd be able to protect the zone from there. Could any of the scientists even shoot?_

_Some of the people were wounded, and they took to the time patch up. Tucker didn't have anything worse than dents in his armor. Snake Face got himself a fat pad of gauze on his arm. He said it was fine, just a graze, and Tucker didn't feel like questioning his tough-guy status._

_The only other thing to do was try to send out signals for more help. Snake Face was gonna need all the help he could get once the innocents got out. Un-fucking-fortunately, CT must have had a scrambler outside. It couldn't cover all frequencies at once, but any connection they could get before getting cut off was spotty, at best. According to the technician, Snake Face might be able to piggyback on the recuse craft's systems before it gets out of range, but it wouldn't last long._

_It would have to do._

_\---_

Between bases nineteen and twenty, they find an abandoned observatory outpost. It's got extra rations (which they take), surveillance equipment for the dozen closest simulation locations (which is all broken) and a layer of dust almost as thick as Simmons' daddy issues (which Tucker and Grif draw competitively larger dicks in until Caboose sneezes). It's also got a map that Wash can do math with so they don't end up stranded in the middle of nowhere when they inevitably run out of fuel for the warthogs. 

It's kind of nice, getting some say in where they end up next. Do they want riverside cold, cement bases, or maybe cold, cement bases neck deep in a marsh? Or maybe the cold, cement bases just on the edge of the treeline of a mountain? 

Simmons gets onto him for being a party pooper -- _dares to suggest someone is rubbing off on him in all the not-fun ways_ \-- but not all of it is sarcasm. 

It's kind of nice, getting to choose. 

_\---_

_Tucker couldn't have been happier to leave this place behind. Ancient laser weapons? One's enough, thanks. Prophecies? Who needs 'em. It's not like they really needed him for any of this. Well, getting inside the temple at all, sure, but..._

_No. Not his junk._

_(His kid, his sword, his opening the door, his activating the lasers, his prophecy, his, his, his--)_

_Maybe it was his junk._ It's not his fault.

_It's not._

_But maybe it's his junk._

_There's a small compartment door to the roof of the temple. It's just close enough to a wide potential landing zone that, with covering fire from Snake Face, they should all be able to make it._

_That's right. Tucker knows what covering fire is. He_ listens _. Y'know, when it's important._

_The rescue would come in hot, 90 seconds to get everyone on board, and then they make like hell._

_They're about ready to move, minutes from the agreed landing time, when Snake Face trips into a wall. He leans against it for a moment and says, "I'm alright," in that tough-guy voice that's too thin to be convincing._

_The medical pad taped to his arm, mostly hidden under his hand until that moment, didn't have a spec of white left on it._

_"What the hell is that?" Tucker asked him._

_"It's just a graze, it's fine."_

_It wasn't a graze. According to the nerd, the bullet was still in his shoulder and just jarred right into an artery. The nerd said, "They'll have equipment on the ship, and a hospital at the colony, but he can't stay here."_

_Tucker's not brave, not really. He looked this situation in the face and every cell in his body screamed "no fucking thanks." He's got a kid to look out for, after all. Fatherhood and shit. He_ didn't _have to stay._

 _He does not know how the words, "Whelp, sucks for this place, then. Better luck next time. Big galaxy, right? Plenty of artifacts to go around," didn't come out of his mouth. Maybe they did. The scientists and weary soldiers looked stricken and forlornly around the walls of the temple. He can see it all on their faces._ So much _was supposed to come from this place, for them. They gave so much for it. A ton of them just gave their lives for it, and for what?_

_For this junk. Junk they found because of Tucker's sword. A mission they put together just for--_

_It's not Tucker's fault._

"The sooner they get it" _\-- his junk --_ "the sooner they come for you, too" _\-- your kid._

_There's this worm in his ear. A tiny sniffle._

_"I'll stay."_

_Who the hell said that._

_Everyone looked at Tucker, so, oh._ He _said that. The reactions were mixed between shock, relief, and something between fear and grief (pity, probably.) Tucker had to take a second to realize he was deciding something, then he said, "I can cover you, just get him out."_

_Maybe he should have panicked. He should have been terrified and in denial and a million other horrible things. Tucker was about to lock himself in a hole. In all fairness, throwing up should not have been out of the picture here. (That all comes later.) Instead he just feels numb._

_Someone shook his hand, someone else gave him a hug. Snake Face looks like something Simmons might have called "solemn." He's not happy. He's not upset. Tucker wonders later if maybe some part of him was proud. Not that Tucker needed anything from him._

_The timid silence of the desert is cut by the sudden hum of a burning engine; their escape, screeching to a halt just outside the door. The temple doors opened to the sound of shouts and gunfire._

_The other soldier in their group started shooting back. The nerds helped each other the short way to the open hull of the ship, Sangheli arms open and hauling up the injured._

_Snake Face sat up enough to get a hand on Tucker's shoulder._

_"You can't last here forever, Tucker," he insists. Turns out everything someone says while bleeding from the mouth from a lip bitten in the name of pain tolerance sounds a million times more convincing. "They'll get in. It's only a matter of time."_

They'll get in. They'll get it, they'll get you, they'll get your kid, eventually. 

_Tucker must have popped a rock the size of a golf ball in his mouth at some point, because he swallowed it._

_"I'll shut the door behind you," is what he managed to say._

_(For months, he'd wonder where his way out was. When he should have snatched it.)_

_"This isn't the only opt--"_

_"Just... tell Junior I love him, okay?"_

_(That was it.)_

_Tucker helps the soldier get Snake Face hitched across her shoulders. Snake Face just keeps talking._

_"Listen, if you get through to your Command, you have to make it appealing. You're one man, and you're surrounded. They need to know what they want is actually here."_

_"But we don't even know if we found--"_

_"Doesn't matter," Snake Face interjects. "You_ make _them come get you."_

 _"And I'll make sure to ask for a change of underwear, just_ go! _"_

_Tucker gave them the last shove out the door. From around the entrance, he emptied every clip he had in the direction of the shooting._

_Snake Face is the last one to disappear behind the entrance to the pelican. Tucker hauls the doors shut behind them._

\---

The score is twenty five to one (Blue Base 22 had alcohol) when they finally run out of gas. Caboose distracts Sarge, Wash scares Simmons into a quick perimeter check, and Tucker and Grif have the Red and Blue flag poles crossed dramatically in the middle of the valley within twenty minutes. 

They hunker down. 

\---

_He did it. He got them out, the evac escaped, they're okay, they're gonna be okay, and the signal got through._

_Tucker told them, "Tell them: we found what we're looking for--"_

We didn't. _He don't even remember what the picture looked like. He doesn't even know where to look it up._

_"--and it's under the sand."_

_I'm_ under the sand. Me. Not them, up there, me. Under. Here. Help, maybe. 

_"Send. Help. Now."_

_There was some grumble from the other line. Desk jockey asshole goes, "Under… sand. Uh, okay. I got it."_

_Two more hard hits outside and the communications set would gonna go down. But that's okay! They got it. The message got through, someone would come, he'd be okay. Tucker dropped his head to the console with relief._

_The guy on the other line said, "As soon as they get back, I'll be sure to, uh, slip it to 'em."_

_Somewhere in the endorphins and adrenaline and relief and shit, Tucker heard that and couldn't help but snort. "Yeah, slip it to 'em! Bow chicka bow wow."_

_The guy was quiet for a moment. A typical response, really. But the way he sounds next is almost suspicious. "...what'd you say?"_

_(What the fuck, that was Grif, wasn't it?)_

_Suddenly, an explosion rocks the temple. Sparks jump off the terminal and Tucker pushes away._

_"Oh, shit, I gotta go!" he yells to the computer guy, and turn rips the power cord out of the back of the system and the whole thing goes black._

_Another explosion rumbles the walls, shaking dust and sand from the ceiling. Tucker wandered back towards the front doors, and he could hear shouting through it. He could make out the words of he got closer (as the sole opener of the doors, he'd played that prank before) but this time he didn't risk it._

_A direct call request flashed through to his HUD. From the armor callsign CT._

_Tucker declined it, with complementary middle finger emoji._

_Gun fire rattled dull thumps against the door outside. The clip eventually ran out, and Tucker could make out a screamed "_ Dammit! _"_

_Tucker wasn't worried. If brute force was going to work, they would have done it before Tucker got there. The place was stocked to hold more than two dozen people for another month and then some. Now it just needed to hold Tucker. Just until help arrived._

_And it_ would _arrive. He got word to command. He got Snake Face and those nerds out. His kid was still out there. Someone would come get him._

_Someone would come back._

_He hunkered down. Outside, the sun set on day one._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i couldn't think of anything to say  
> thanks for reading <3  
> see you next week!


	5. Still.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every detail of this place can be listed like a love letter to Tucker's sensibilities. The base walls are so thick he can only hear Caboose snore if he leaves his door open. There's a functioning refrigerator. They're not fighting the Reds, so Grif if available for nigh endless conversation (Simmons, too, he guesses). Wash starts teaching him and Simmons how to throw knives. Simmons gets really into it for reasons that no one actually cares about. Their base even has couches. They have a spotty and military filtered, but existent, _wi-fi connection_. Personal time abounds. 
> 
> Tucker _hates_ it here.

Still, he's stuck in a hole.

\---

They've been on the road for months at this point, and have accumulated quite a bit of what certain military personnel would call "extraneous bullshit." The Reds and Blues, six people who, at the moment, could not give less of a shit about military rationing protocol if it bit them in the ass, call them "personal effects." These range from an entire microwave (property of Dexter "the value of warm food" Grif) to a box full of every sock they've been able to find (property of David ("No shit?) "these boots chafe!" [REDACTED]).

On a scale of Simmons to Grif, they all unpack into the bases at their own pace. The first thing inside Blue Base, besides munitions and armor, is the coffee maker. Six bases back, they found it under a loose floorboard in the armor room. It takes an hour to make a single cup, and they're scrapping the bottom of the coffee tin, but God help them if they ever leave it in the Blue Hog and it gets rained on. And, God bless them, the new Blue Base has more coffee in it. 

Second order of business in Blue Base: Captain's Quarters. They didn't stay in any of the other bases long enough to get more comfortable than trading night watch shifts in the room with the best escape route, and Blood Gulch Blue Base didn't have separate quarters. Probably because Flowers slept standing in the corner of the kitchen. 

"He _what?_ " Wash almost shouts. 

Caboose had jumped right into setting up his bed in the grunt room because the Captain's bed was too small for him, which left Tucker and Wash standing at the door to the Captain's room. At the volume of a five vehicle pile up, from down the hall, Caboose explains, "THE BLUE TEAM LEADER BEFORE CHURCH WHO I NEVER MET WAS ALSO A ROBOT." 

"That--" Tucker wants to correct something in there, but he kinda had to feel up Flower's body when he stole his armor. His face was fleshy, at least, but if those arms were just made of slim muscle, it was _rock hard_ (bow chicka bow-wow) slim muscle. He admits, "Cyborg may not have been off the table." 

Wash does his Thinking Squint. "Was he about your size?"

Tucker says, "Yes," and leaves it at that. 

"Did he talk like he just drove up in an unmarked white van with no rear windows?"

Tucker leans away. "Yes..." 

Wash blinks and pulls his mouth into a firm, "Hm." Like he's made some sort of Conclusion. 

" _Do not_ tell me that Flowers was a Freelancer." 

Wash says, "Okay," turns, and walks away. 

And that's how Tucker claims the Captain's Quarters. 

\---

_Tucker had the whole place to himself. Almost like the mansion he always wanted, with a built-in system that only listens to him, no one to tell him what not to draw on the walls, and every room up for grabs at the drop of a hat. Room too hot? There was another one deeper down six whole degrees cooler. Bam, it's Tucker's. Acoustics not great? Try this one over here with the neat etchings on the walls that double as night lights!_

_Not that he needed a nightlight. He's not_ seven. _Besides, all their HUDs have night-vision and flashlights._

_There was always someone at the door. Why would they risk, even for a moment, missing the chance of Tucker slipping out? They'd try to mind-game him, sometimes. Convince him to give up or switch sides or blah blah blah._

_Every time, Tucker remembered Junior. Every time, he turned them down with a middle finger that they couldn't even see. He made sure to get the point across in other ways._

_Other than that, he just had himself to hang out with. He was plenty used to that. It's basically the same as hanging out with Caboose, but without the distractions and house fires. Next thing he knew, two weeks had passed. It was two hours after that when he remembered what that meant._

_Junior was gone. The Sangheili would have him in protective custody already. He didn't get to say goodbye._

_Tex said something about goodbyes once, in a strange sentimental moment he'd been sworn to secrecy about, on threat of castration. Tucker had sworn he'd forget about it, and until that moment he genuinely had._

_It was a comforting thought, though. Junior wasn't gone, he just wasn't here right now._

_No one was._

\---

Every detail of this place can be listed like a love letter to Tucker's sensibilities. The base walls are so thick he can only hear Caboose snore if he leaves his door open. There's a functioning refrigerator. They're not fighting the Reds, so Grif if available for nigh endless conversation (Simmons, too, he guesses). Wash starts teaching him and Simmons how to throw knives. Simmons gets really into it for reasons that no one actually cares about. Their base even has couches. They have a spotty and military filtered, but existent, _wi-fi connection._ Personal time abounds. 

Tucker _hates_ it here. 

He's sure he'd have a different opinion if his sleep clock didn't look like an inverted version of Grif's. It's not that his bed isn't comfortable, it's the softest bed he's slept on in years. It's not that it's _too_ comfortable, either. Tucker tried moving to the floor, just to check. It's not too hot, it's not too cold, and still he finds himself, over and over, laying wide awake in the dark, the air pressing down on him. (It's not too dark, either. He tried the helmet light thing already.) 

He drifts off, a little, but never so long that he feels rested. Nights stretch on and on into daylight. Morning stretches into noon, and hunger drags him out of bed. The first few nights, it's just kind of annoying. A week in, he gives up on wasting his mornings. He asks Grif for tips, but all of Grif's advice amounts to Tucker eating more than his own body weight, so he passes. 

Two weeks into their extended stay, Tucker has to cut back hanging out with Grif because looking at him pisses Tucker off for some reason. So when Tucker hauls himself out of his room and finds Grif splitting a pot of coffee with Wash at the kitchen table, he snatches the mug right out of Grif's hand. He slam dunks everything left in it -- half a cup of burning creamer with 1 part coffee. It makes him feel a little bit alive. 

Wash and Grif have never looked so similar, both with wide eyes and eyebrows closer to their hair than their eyes. Tucker's insides still feel empty, so he doesn't really care. 

"What," Tucker asks like a question and not like a challenge because, no, he's not feeling hostile thank you. 

Grif looks at Wash who looks at Tucker like... yikes, what is _that_ face? Tucker hasn't seen this one, yet. 

Then Wash asks, "Have you been sleeping?"

Tucker slams-- sets the mug on the table. He says, "Yes," and turns to grab the first thing he finds in a cabinet. Half a sleeve of crackers. Sure, whatever, it's food. He shoves some in his mouth, but starts looking for something else. There's gotta be a fruit snack left somewhere.

Directly from that, Wash transitions to: "I saw that temple in the desert, Tucker." 

That empty feeling in Tucker's gut fills with something that isn't food. He wants to spit it out. "Yeah? You leave any of it in one piece?"

Tucker doesn't actually know much about what Wash was doing running around with the Meta other than shooting Donut and Lopez. They don't talk about it. For the most part, Tucker doesn't have a fuck to give about it. He's only got so many of those left, after all. Fighting that Meta thing gave him a pretty interesting image, though. 

If Wash is stung by this, it doesn't show at all. "I'm trying to say: I think I know how to help."

Tucker doesn't find any fruit snacks, so he takes the rest of the cracker sleeve and slams -- _slams_ \-- the cabinet closed. "I don't need help," he says. He swings himself around to march for the showers. 

"You sure?" Wash asks after him. 

"I'm _fine,_ " Tucker tosses over his shoulder. 

From around the corner, Tucker hears Grif say, "Yeah, he's not fine."

\---

_The hardest part of holding a base solo isn't the fighting. Tucker had an alien arsenal and an impenetrable fortress on his side. He wasn't at all worried about CT and his goons getting to him._

_The hardest part is the waiting._

_There were two rooms in the temple where sunlight bled through. One of them was pretty far into the lower tunnels and had a deep crack that cut through the ceiling. They never could figure out where the top side of the crack was, but Tucker avoided that one just to be safe. The other got light from a string of reflective panels that led somewhere into the walls. They knew the outermost window panel was on the roof, but the panel was just as unbreakable as the temple walls._

_The point is, he had some sense of time passing. For the most part, he did what he'd been doing already. He took naps, he swung his sword around, he drew glass dicks in the sand._

_He knew the only thing that gets through these walls was his sword (bow chicka bow-wow). He knew every muffled blast wasn't a threat. If anything, it was his enemies slowly running out of equipment and reasons to convince their bosses to keep trying. He could yell taunts and bad sex jokes through the doors all day, and no matter how pissed CT got, he wouldn't get inside any faster._

_Still._

"It's only a matter of time."

_So Tucker stared at the ceiling in the dark, listened to his own breathing, and absolutely didn't think about how thirty seven days of that time were already up._

_\---_

Wash is using that face again, that Tucker now recognizes as open concern. Tucker would put more effort into wiping that look of his face if he didn't have a headache. 

"Caboose," he says for the fourth time. "Inside voices."

At a harsh stage whisper, Caboose says, " _Okay._ " And then proceeds to continue arguing cosmic temporality to Sarge with the vocabulary of a second grader and the volume of second grade cafeteria. At least, this time, he doesn't try to repeat the argument that they're outside and picnics have no legal regulations for sound pollution. Tucker's not sure he could handle the hamster metaphor again. 

Simmons is looking at Tucker, too, over his cup of ramen broth. Grif, next to him on the grass, is licking his own paper bowl. Simmons looks like there are literal gears turning in his head. "There are a number of things that cause headaches," he tells Tucker like an essay. "Do you have a family history of migraines?" 

No idea. "No."

"Are you allergic to any forms of pollen?" 

Probably. "No."

"Are you up to date on your vaccines?" 

Every single fucking one of them. He's been to Sanghelios for god's sake, he's got to be one of the most vaccinated people alive. "Yes."

Sarge interjects with, "A constant ringing in your ear to which you tune your radio?" 

Tucker says, "No."

Simmons asks, "Have you been getting enough sleep?" 

And then Wash says, "No."

Nobody laughs. Tucker doesn't know why he expected someone to. 

"Is Caboose's snoring keeping you up?" Grif asks. 

Caboose, part of the conversation now, says, "No! We make sure the door is shut every night."

"I bunk with Caboose," Wash explains. "Tucker called dibs on captain's quarters."

"Heresy!" Sarge proclaims. "To squander the sanctity of rank! You tempt the wrath of the gods of _war!_ Ares! Eros!" 

"That's the god of love, sir," Simmons corrects respectfully. 

"I know what I said."

"None of us are Captains," Wash reasons with Sarge, because he hasn't learned his lesson yet. "We _could_ pull the last cot out of storage and put it in the grunt room, but it'd be meaningless. You _know_ the Red and Blue ranks don't mean anything."

"Well then your freelancer rank doesn't count, either."

Wash shrugs. "Okay, sure." 

It occurs to Tucker that Wash hasn't attempted to pull rank on them once. Tucker digs through his brain for it, because they listen to Wash all the time. But he's got nothing. He's just fucking _sensible_ or whatever the hell. Since when have any of them cared about sensibility? 

But then Wash says, "We can pull _real_ ranks. What were you before freelancer got you?"

Sarge hesitates. Squints at Wash. "What were _you_?" 

"I asked you first."

"I outrank you."

Wash looks Sarge dead in the eye, casually stirs the noodles from his cup, and says, "Do you?" 

Grif, Simmons, and Caboose look back and forth between them, waiting for someone to break. Grif slides his fork into Caboose's noodle cup without looking. 

Caboose gets uncomfortable when things get too quiet. (The tension has nothing to do with it. Tucker is pretty sure Caboose could walk in on a drug deal and join a gang by the end of it.) He shifts the tension with a drawn out, "Yeah… We don't really have a leader," he says. 

"We just do whatever gets said first," Tucker clarifies. 

Grif puts a hand on Simmons' shoulder. "Simmons, I think it's my turn to defect."

Sarge stares daggers at Grif, who doesn't so much as flinch. 

Tucker says, "It's usually Caboose or Wash."

Grif looks at Tucker and gestures to Sarge, who growls. 

"Wash likes morning patrols at a light jog."

Grif nods and says, "Defection rescinded."

Sarge nods approvingly. 

"Jogs are a great way to get energy for the day!" Wash says, defensively. 

"Exercise helps you sleep," Simmons chimes in. He doesn't look at Grif. 

"I pride myself in being an exception," Grif responds. 

"Wash is a great sleeper," Caboose says. 

"Sounds fake, but okay," Grif says. 

"Can't plot revenge without a good night's rest," Wash debates casually, and slurps the noodles he'd been ignoring. 

"But you've seen combat and shit," Grif argues. 

"Life is short, Grif," Wash says. "Gotta move on somehow."

"And you moved on by…?" 

Wash says, "Spite," around his noodles. He swallows to say, "Wouldn't recommend that, though."

“What _would_ you recommend?” Tucker realizes, only after it’s come out of his mouth, that the question’s sincere. In a flash of embarrassment, he backpedals. “You got some super secret agent yoga, or do I just need Caboose to cuddle me to death?”

“I am an _excellent_ cuddle buddy,” Caboose says, indignantly. 

"Don't touch me." Tucker saw Caboose hug a gun once, and he doesn't have a death wish. 

Wash just _winces_ at him. After an extra moment's thought, he says, "Ask me when you're more desperate."

"What the fuck is _that_ supposed to mean?"

Wash focuses on his food. "It means you're a snob who'll turn away any help you don't want." 

Now that is _completely un-fucking-true_ but Tucker's brain doesn't have the benefit of all cylinders right now. Wash slurps up the last of his noodles. 

Grif snorts. Tucker only realizes his jaw had dropped open when he clicks his teeth back together. He tosses the rest of his dinner at Grif -- who catches it with uncharacteristic reflexes -- and gets to his feet. “Like I’d want your help, anyway,” he spits, and marches off for Blue Base. 

Even so, Tucker can’t help but cling to an idea. Wash got by on spite? That’s fine. That’s _perfect_. 

Tucker can do spite. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I have read So Many Wash&Insomnia fics, and I will read many many more, but sometimes I also like the headcanon that Wash got to spend time in a decent hospital and knows how to take care of himself and is available to teach others how to be Functional. Not that he's an expert, by any means. He's just been around the block before
> 
> Just one more chapter and an epilogue! I might post them both on the same day, I haven't decided yet. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	6. And then:

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's this story, about a guy who fell down a hole. A rich man comes by and tosses him some money. A doctor comes by and tells him how he fell. A priest comes by and says a prayer for him. Still, he's stuck in a hole.
> 
> And then a friend comes by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We got plenty of that T in our PTSD.

There's this story, about a guy who fell down a hole. A rich man comes by and tosses him some money. A doctor comes by and tells him how he fell. A priest comes by and says a prayer for him. Still, he's stuck in a hole.

And then a friend comes by.

\---

_Sometimes, it was the bodies, tossed down the pit, and slowly being buried by the sand that drifted down after them whenever a breeze made it through. It's not like he could smell them, if they did smell. It's not like he could see them, if there was anything at all to see. But he knows they're there._

_It hit him, hard, that he put them there. It's not his fault, he didn't attack first. He had to attack because they attacked him. They wanted_ him.

_They didn't want anything, now. They were just a silent pile at the bottom of a hole._

_One night, when Tucker got lost in his own head, he wondered if there was a jump-scare down there. Waiting for the right moment to pop up like a jack-n-the-box and scare the shit out of him._

_Would have been a nice change of pace. Being eaten by a zombie would probably be a fast way to go. Better than running out of food (he still had plenty) or his suit finally shutting down. Caboose had lasted a while in a shut down suit, it didn't look fun._

_Tucker's HUD didn't so much as glitch. Not once. It was just_ so _devoted to keeping him alive._ Someone _had to put the effort in, he guessed._

\---

For nineteen glorious minutes, Tucker manages to fall asleep in the middle of the day, out on the hill between the bases, listening to Grif and Simmons do their impression of a married couple in their forties. Unfortunately, before he is able to properly appreciate it, Caboose utilizes his ability to teleport to wherever he's needed least.

Caboose shouts something about circles, Tucker startles awake, and then Tucker kicks Caboose in the jewels. Hard. By the time Tucker storms back to Blue Base, Caboose is still crouched on the ground where Tucker left him. Wash is just coming out of the entrance when he gets there, probably righteously alarmed by all the drawn out siren noise Caboose is making. 

Wash is a smart guy. Tucker sees it on his face when he figures out what happened. Tucker just glares at him. He's blocking the doorway. 

Wash levels a blank stare back. Tucker has either gone insane or he's finally figured out Wash's facial range. He's challenging, but not hostile. Questioning. Expectant. Waiting. Doesn't offer anything himself, just waits for Tucker's next move, unafraid. 

If Wash is going to be a stubborn asshole with stupid, dramatic, standards for helping people, then _fine_.Tucker shoulders past him, into the base. No one calls after him. He makes it twenty yards into the base, lit by only dying daylight before he stops. 

What is he doing? 

He can't let Agent Washington think he can just string Tucker around however he wants. He _refuses_ to ask for whatever magic special help Wash thinks he has. But standing here alone, tired, head light and buzzing? 

_Tucker wants it so bad._ Why does it have to be from him? From a guy? Can't some hot chick pop spontaneously into their lives like every other time Tucker's life has stagnated since he joined the military? Maybe some hot plant biologist knows which space plant is the space weed. 

No one would blame Tucker for going back in and shooting Agent Washington, right then and there. No one that still has all their team-killing points left, anyway. 

Instead, he goes out the back entrance, finds that shady spot where he about nodded off next to Grif yesterday. It's quiet and cool and cozy and safe and there's no one there to bother him 

He doesn't catch a wink. 

 

\---

 _As bad as sudden, distant explosions -- and the sudden_ close _explosions -- were, it was worse when the night was silent. Because he never expected it to be silent. He expected another blast, or a wall to cave in, or voices in strange languages to echo from the deep chambers._

_It was always just silent._

\---

There's no strange noises coming from the walls. He's tried recording the air, and it comes out empty, and no one's said anything about strange noises coming from the walls. That said: Tucker could _swear_ he's hearing something in the walls at night. In the dead silence. Of his empty room.

He's not crazy he's just… a little dizzy, is all. 

\--- 

_Tucker would get pissed, sometimes. In hindsight, he figures he could have gotten angry more. He'd earned it, after all. Seventy days with no one but his would-be murderers to talk to? Tucker'd earned his right to all the empty screaming with the foulest words he could think of._

_Too bad the temple could only respond with a hollow echo._

_\---_

Caboose stops talking to him, which would be spectacular if it weren't a sign of the apocalypse. It's not that Caboose is giving him the cold shoulder, or changing his overall demeanor, he just doesn't come to Tucker for anything anymore. Grif doesn't respond to his texts as much. The poster moments for interteam relations become Simmons explaining the Team Manual pictures to Caboose, and Sarge and Wash's weekly slap fight. 

Which is fine. 

He doesn't need to yell arguments with Caboose to be a functional human being. There are other things to do. 

\--- 

_At one point, Tucker embraced his inner mechanic and started picking apart the abandoned lab equipment. Just to kill time. Turned out he doesn't have an inner mechanic, though._

_He considered dropping his new pile of junk down the hole, but he could never bring himself to do it._

\--- 

At three in the morning, he takes his cot apart and puts it back together. It's shorter, now. He lost a piece of a leg somehow and shaved off the others with his sword to match it. Then he finds the missing piece in his hoodie pocket. 

He straps that piece to a grenade, drops that grenade down the toilet, and holds the lid down with his boot while it explodes. He's just remembering the last time he put a grenade in a toilet _\--ohfuckberriesshit--_ when it goes off. 

It was a flash bang. There’s no actual explosion, just a blast of noise and light and smoke that knocks Tucker back on his ass. 

Tucker is pretty sure the thing he has next qualifies as a panic attack. Alone. On the bathroom floor. In just boots and his helmet, next a smoking toilet. 

\--- 

_Tucker missed Junior every day. Obviously._

_But then Tucker missed Church. He missed Tex. He missed Sheila. He missed_ Caboose. _Hell, he missed the Reds. Lopez. Grif. Simmons. Sarge. Donut. He thought once even Doc would make this suck less._

_They were all miserable before, but it was tolerable, with those idiots._

_Just one of them. If he could have just one of them, he could stop feeling miserable._

\---

It's three in the morning, Tucker's eyes are paper dry, his head is pounding, and he _can't. Fucking. Sleep._

He gets goosebumps and could swear there's something in his bed, except he cleans the sheets three times and nothing changes. He moves the bed around, and he still can't get his jaw to stop clenching. He drinks enough water to spend an hour of his day in the bathroom, and his eyes still won't stay shut. He stares at the ceiling, feeling like he's on the jittery end of a caffeine binge, and he hasn't touched the coffee pot in days. 

And that's it. Tucker has no more fucks to give. 

Tucker slams past the door to his room. He doesn't expect to find Wash outside the grunt's quarters, but there he is on the couch. In the middle of the night. His dumbass, scratched up face illuminated by a datapad he's got open. It's a dumbass face because it didn't give Tucker it's _oh sacred wisdom_ a fucking week ago; and it's a dumbass face because the surprised shape he's making with it would crack Tucker up if he had a fuck to give about it. But he doesn’t have any of those anymore. He ran out. 

He also doesn't have the energy to express any of this. He rides his frustration all the way to stand at the arm of the couch and just stare Wash in the face until he gives Tucker what he wants. Maybe Wash'll just knock him out. Maybe freelancers know pressure points and stuff for that. Maybe he's held off this long because he doesn't want Tucker getting his eight hours at the price of nightly concussions. Tucker doesn't care if he loses half his brain at this point, he wants to _sleep._

Wash doesn't punch him in the face. He doesn't even get up. He just sighs, scoots to the far end of the couch, points to the cushions directly next to him, and says, "Sit." 

A choke-hold, then. Tucker can deal with that. He sits down next to Wash. 

Wash shoves him just hard enough on the shoulder to topple him sideways onto the couch cushions. Tucker springs back up onto his elbows. "Hey!" If being sideways was part of the KO process, he could have just _said_ so. 

This is starting to look less and less like Tucker expected it to. Wash's attention has already returned to his datapad. "Go to sleep," is the only instruction he gives. 

"That's what I've been _trying_ to do, dipshit."

"I meant go to sleep _here,_ " he clarifies, which clears up nothing. 

"What?"

"You're not afraid of the dark. You don't have sand-themed PTSD, and you don't have some kind of separation anxiety with Caboose."

Tucker has three guesses which asshole has put money on that Caboose theory. He'll get that out of Wash later. After he's _slept._ "Please tell me this thesis paper has a conclusion."

Wash aborts an eye-roll. "You've only had trouble sleeping when you're alone."

Tucker feels a protest build up in his throat but isn't sure where to direct it. He tries, "I spent _months_ in that desert by myself. I can handle being alone." He gets a disbelieving eyebrow lift in return. "I do _not_ have some kind of loneliness problem."

Then Wash says, "Prove it." 

There's a code listed just under the "international dibs protocol" -- or if there isn't, there should be -- about dares. Either implied or otherwise clearly stated: failure to attempt a dare opens one to uncontested ridicule. That, or it's part of the Manly Code. It's hard to tell which codes, international or Manly, Sarge is going on about. Tucker's not sure the man knows the difference. 

Whatever scriptural law he has backing him doesn't matter. Maybe it's just spite. Regardless, Tucker flips over to face the back of the couch, makes sure his feet are shoved up under the worst part of Agent Washington's rib cage, and settles in to be barely able to _blink._

Tucker doesn't last five minutes. 

\---

 _Actually, there’s an even worse thing than just silence, because “silence”_ isn’t silent. _Tucker had read about that somewhere, that they had to build some kind of crazy room with funky shaped walls in order to get_ real _silence. The longer he had to listen, the more he understood it._

_There was the wind, and the hiss of falling sand, but that was just white noise. Constant. Ignorable. Quiet, creeping background noise--_

but God _the cooling unit in his armor. A month in, some tiny part inside it started squealing. A tiny little ringing noise of some fan just_ barely _out of alignment. Full-cover helmets had been protecting soldiers from tinnitus for centuries, but what was the fucking point if they did the dirty work of slowly driving people insane all on their own?_

_What did he even need the suit for, anyway? Armored or naked, he'd sweat his ass off. Armored or naked, there was no one to contact. Armored or naked, if they decided to nuke the place from orbit, he'd be a dead man._

_Tucker popped the helmet off and-- goddamn, hot was an understatement. If this temple was "hot," then Kaikaina Grif's boobs should be kept in a freezer._

_...well. Maybe just a cooler. One of those shitty ones you take to your kid's baseball game--_

_The point is: breathing the temple air unfiltered was like trying to drink phoenix piss. He coughed and gagged on the dry air. He turned his helmet back around, ready to put it back on, and then he stopped. Stared at the inside._

_He hadn't taken his helmet off in… god, how long was it? How long had he been trapped in that thing? Trapped in_ this thing? 

_He didn't remember getting down to the lower level; to the room with the pit. He could chuck every piece of armor down there. For all they knew, it went on forever. He'd never have to see it again. Never have to wear it again. Never have to_ do _this again._

_It would just sit there, at the bottom. With the other bodies. Dead._

_Tucker stood, for far too long, at the edge of the pit. Helmet poised to throw. He stood there, building up the energy, and it went nowhere. Just built up and built up like a balloon, but he couldn't move._

Come on. _It was already the helmet of a dead man, right? What did it matter? Flowers hadn't even seemed to care, after he'd shown up again. He'd even said, long before that:_

"Anything for the safety of my recruits! I'd gladly take an axe to the chest to bring you all home safe!"

_Home._

_"_ Dammit! _"_

_Tucker turned on his heel to chuck his helmet, full force, at the far wall. It bounced off the stone and rolled across the sand. He could hear soft static coming from the speakers. Something else in it must have clicked on._

_He didn't_ want _it to make more noise. He marched over to it, a scream to, "Shut up!" on the tip of his tongue as he drew back to kick it--_

 _\--click. "_ \--onk! _"_

_Tucker froze. His own voice came out of his helmet._

_"_ Can you say "Pops"? _"_

 _"_ Honk! _"_

 _"_ Papa? _"_

_His audio recorder. It must have still had files saved from Blood Gulch, somehow. He'd figured they'd all be wiped when they'd debriefed him._

_The recording kept going._

_"_ It doesn't have _lips_ , Tucker, _" Church had said._

 _"_ Bullshit! He's got like… two, four… he's got, like, seven lips! _"_

 _"_ Honk! _"_

 _"_ You tell 'em, Junior. _"_

 _"_ God, what did I do to deserve this? _"_

_Tucker scooped his helmet out of the sand._

_"_ If you hate this so much, why don't you hang out with Caboose? Or Doc? _"_

 _Church hummed. "_ I'm pretty sure Doc is trying to improve Caboose's dental hygiene. The last thing I want to see today is Caboose attempting to floss. _"_

_They had ended up seeing it. Apparently one of Caboose's teeth was an implant, and the floss had gotten stuck for two hours._

_"_ Well if you're gonna hang out here, either shut up or find some alphabet cards. _"_

 _"_ He's a week old, Tucker, he's not gonna get the alphabet. _"_

_"Honk!"_

_Tucker remembered ignoring Church after that._

_In the temple, where the air felt like acid on his skin, he slipped his helmet back on. Locked himself back in. Overheat warnings flashed across his HUD, the AC kicked back into high gear. The crooked cooling fan whined away in his ear._

_"_ You got this, kiddo, live my dreams. Pa-pa? _"_

 _"_ Blargh-honk! _"_

_Fuck._

\---

Tucker doesn't speak to Wash the whole next day. Wash doesn't try to talk to him, either. The next night, when he can't sleep in his room (again), he peers tentatively out his door. Wash isn't there, this time. He must be in his room with Caboose. There's nothing on the couch but the data pad he was reading off of the night before.

The couch, _of course_. Tucker hadn't tried sleeping on the couch, yet. It must have been the couch. Not whatever Wash had said. Obviously. 

Tucker lays, wide-awake, on the couch for seventeen whole minutes. 

Then there's a sound like a tractor backfiring from deep inside the base. Tucker has no fight or flight response to that, it's just Caboose snoring. They must have left the door to the grunt barracks open. 

Tucker tiptoes across the base floor. Reasonably, he tells himself, because who knows what kind of hair trigger Wash sleeps on. He makes it to the door with barely a sound and peers around the doorframe. It's a cloudy night, so not much light comes through the small window on the opposite wall. There's just enough to see the basics. 

Caboose is splayed, face down, across his bunk against the right wall, multiple limbs hanging off the side (which means it's not likely to rain tomorrow). On the left, Wash sleeps on his back, with one hand under his head and the blanket barely jostled, like he fell asleep while talking to Caboose and just hasn't moved. Tucker hasn't been in here too many times, but just enough to notice what's new. 

There's a third cot, against the far wall, under the window. It has a blanket, and a pillow, and it hasn't been touched. 

He could… he could try. For just a few minutes. He's been sleeping so terribly, that even if he's out for a few hours he'll definitely be up before the others. He can slip back out like he was never there. Yeah. That'll work. Dignity, and all that shit. He's just… yeah. Just borrowing the cot. For a little bit. It's not that Wash is right, he just… yeah. 

Yeah. 

Tucker doesn't really remember crawling onto the cot and under the blanket. He presses his face to the pillow, closes his eyes, his whole body relaxes, and that's that. 

\---

_Tucker likes to think he's reasonably self-aware. Privately? Yeah, okay, he maybe let a few screws go loose for a bit there. He was feeling better, all things considered, when things finally changed._

_Thank God._

_Otherwise he might not have realized that something had changed at all. There wasn't something new, but rather something missing. CT and his band of merry dumbasses had started operating on somewhat of a schedule, in that every day they took to finding a new place to plant explosives._

_But it had been too long after sunrise, and nothing had gone off._

_That didn't have to mean a game changer. Maybe they were just taking a break. Could be right back on the horse tomorrow._

_But Tucker goes to the doors. He shouts as loud as he can, as insulting as he can. He puts together some strings of disgusting profanity he's particularly proud of._

_Nothing._

_There was_ always _someone out there. Why would they be gone? What could have possibly--_

_Suddenly there's a distant explosion. Tucker presses his helmet mic directly to the temple door, and he hears something else. It sounds like someone yelling over the megaphone. Unauthorized crossing into the minefield. Unauthorized personnel on site._

_Someone else was there. Friend of Tucker or friend of CT, it didn't matter._

_This was about to end._

\---

Caboose is gone when Tucker wakes up to the sound of kevlar suit zippers. When he pries his eyelids up, Wash is standing over his own cot, wiggling his fingers into his gloves. The room lights aren't on, but the room is well lit through the window. 

Oh fuck he didn't wake up first. 

Maybe if he closes his eyes and doesn't move again, Wash won't notice--

"Morning," Wash greets. 

Maybe, if he doesn't respond, he'll sink through the flimsy mattress and deteriorate gracefully among the mushrooms below the earth. He ends up mumbling a barely intelligible, "M'rnin'." 

Wash doesn't laugh, or comment, or start telling some story that'll turn out to be about Tucker being a snob who doesn't accept help. He just moves on to the next glove. 

Maybe Tucker can go back to sleep. Just roll back over and… 

But Wash is getting dressed. He's going out. He's leaving. Tucker's heart squirms in his chest, and he has to push himself up, swinging his feet to the floor. 

Wash doesn't comment. Doesn't look up, doesn't make a face. Just goes about his business. Tucker wants to wait for the "I told you so," but he can't feel it approaching. That's almost worse. Eventually, he can't take it anymore. 

"How did you know?"

Wash looks up to blink at Tucker, and then back it his suit, as he sets the air-seal latches. He has a face that's mostly neutral, a look that's _almost_ brooding, but not so much angst. He says, "I couldn't sleep, either." The last latch clicks. His gloves seem fine, but he fidgets with them. "I didn't have _your_ problem, but I wasn't the only one in the hospital. You pick up a few things." 

Tucker... has nothing witty to say about that. Hospital. Right, Wash had a computer (Church) explode in his head. Freelancer or not, people don't just bounce. 

Wash must have nothing left to say, and must assume Tucker has nothing left to say. He doesn't have his plates on above the waist, but he goes to leave. Tucker finally has a workable thought once Wash reaches the door. 

"What do you need your suit for at asscrack-AM?" he asks, and Wash stops. "Did Caboose burn the kitchen again?"

Wash (asshole) laughs. "Tucker, it's three in the afternoon." Suddenly serious, he says, "And Sarge thinks I've been using some kind of aim-assist in my armor." Then he pulls out a knife from Tucker-does-not-know-where. "I'm gonna prove him wrong. He agreed to be the target." And then he walks down the hall out of sight. He leaves the door open behind him. 

Tucker just kind of sits there for a moment. With the daylight through the window, Tucker can see more of the room. Caboose's bed is covered in nuts (the food kind and the metal kind), bolts, loose wires, and metal chunks; like he hugged laundry machine in his sleep or something. His blanket is half on the floor, but Tucker can see his crayon collection spilling out from under the bed (at least he's not keeping them in his rifle anymore). Wash's stuff is more organized. His bed, while not perfect, is made, and his box of socks contains itself next to his magazine collection (the bullet kind, not the fun kind). There's also a crummy crayon drawing of a cat on the wall over his cot. Tucker's never seen Caboose draw a cat before, so he's not sure which of them scribbled it. 

Tucker thinks his sword would fit there on the window ledge...

From across the base, Wash calls, "You coming?"

Like hell Tucker is going to miss Sarge nearly getting his balls sliced off. 

"Yo, does a machete count as a knife?"

He follows out the door. 

\---

And then a friend comes by, and he jumps in the hole with him. 

And the guy goes, "What are you doing, now we're both down here!" 

And the friend responds, "Yeah, but I've been here before. And I know the way out."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU AGAIN FOR READING!!
> 
> There'll be an epilogue later today so I'll gush then


	7. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in this universe: danger for Tucker means black-armored mystery soldiers bursting into the base at twelve fifteen in the afternoon like they're here to assassinate the president.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist a real fight scene

When Tucker joined the military, he didn't actually expect to fight anything. He had no plans to get ripped, or be good with a gun, or learn how to build bombs and repair tanks. He had no skill set for those things, and he never considered building one. Every operation needs the background hands wasting away their days filing all the paperwork the real heroes don't have time to bother with, or pressing those buttons that need pressing even though no one wants to do it. 

Tucker is a simple man, with simple needs: get paid, get laid. He could have done that, with a desk job. Probably at the same time, with the right kind of supervisor, the right kind of coworker, and the right kind of supply closet. Maybe, in one of those alternate universes Simmons goes on about, Alt-Tucker is doing just that. For Alt-Tucker, the most dangerous thing is paper cuts in the Alt-supply closet. 

Back in this universe: danger for Tucker means black-armored mystery soldiers bursting into the base at twelve fifteen in the afternoon like they're here to assassinate the president. 

After everything that's happened, it occurs to him -- here, with his hands up -- that this is the first time he's actually _looked_ down the barrel of a gun. He's got his bodysuit and his armor pants on, at least, but it's not a good look. 

Then the stranger says, "Where's Private Church?"

There are a million responsible things to think and realize in a scenario like this one. Is anyone coming for help? What can I say to buy more time? I have to pick between my life and my teammates life right now; have I regenerated any fucks to give for that, yet? 

All Tucker can think is: _Oh shit it's a chick._

Naturally, his response to this information is, "What?"

The Lady Stranger doesn't even take the time to roll her eyes. "Your most recent squad roster has Privates Tucker, Caboose, and _Church._ " She leans into her stance, pressing further into his chest plate with her boot and the gun closer to his face. "Where. Is Private. _Church?_ "

Now, Tucker feels certain ways when talking to women. Many of them inappropriate in conversation between gentlemen, and many others which will forever be between Tucker and the diary he doesn't write because he's not a weenie (or a Red, not like there's a difference). 

Tucker says, "If I tell you, will you let me live?" and he realizes he doesn't feel any of those usual Chick Talk ways. Tucker doesn't feel excited or nervous, he just doesn't want to die. For once, he's not talking to a girl, he's talking to someone who wants him dead. So, nothing new. 

He starts moving his hands down, away from his head. She's already disposed of his guns, and he doesn't have a knife holster. Nothing to get antsy about.

She says, "You and your buddies killed four of my friends," and that's not exactly new, either. Her helmet twitches to his hands, but he has nothing in reach. "But I might be convinced to make it painless."

"Girl, your negotiating skills suck."

She focuses back on his face, where Tucker does some of his best work. 

"If you want, I could show you mine." His hand finally finds his leg. "It's a sword."

Tucker starts swinging before he even hits the button. His attacker jumps back with crazy speed, and the tip barely slices through her grieve. He rolls back, onto his feet, and pulls the blade in front of his face, just before she starts shooting. Every single bullet is exactly on trajectory for his eyes, and melts on impact with plasma. 

From the left, "Hey!" pivots her attention off of Tucker, just in time to have her pistol shot out of her hand. Wash, fully armored, stands in the hallway entrance, rifle up. His focus doesn't flinch from the intruder, but he orders, "Tucker, radio!" 

Tucker's helmet is on the couch, two long steps away. On the other side of that is the Reds. Tucker stands to reach-- 

In a flash, out of the corner of his eye, the intruder snatches something off her leg and then it's smacking Tucker's hand like an electric fastball with a _SMAKZZT_ that goes all the way down Tucker's toes. His legs seize up and he plants his face into the concrete. 

He hears Wash shout, "Freeze!" and shots go off, cut short by a high pitched hum of machinery and then the thud of armor hitting armor hitting armor. When Tucker looks up, the intruder is ju-jitsing the rifle right out of Wash's hands and kicking him away. He doesn't lose his feet, but the intruder gets her hand on the trigger. Tucker hefts his sword to throw--

"Church!" Caboose goes from not being in the room, to shouldering the intruder so hard in the ribs she flies into the far wall. In socks and sweats, Caboose almost slips on the concrete floor. 

Tucker dives behind the couch,finally gets hands on his helmet, shoves his head into it and clicks open the open channel. 

"Blues to Reds, hostile intruder! We need back up!" 

Sarge makes it on the line first. "Alrighty, to officially open negotiations--"

Rifle fire and the microwave exploding blocks out whatever tangent Sarge starts on. 

"You can have the flag, no one gives a shit! Send. Help. _Now!_ "

There's a clamor of noise in the background. Grif shouts back, "We're on our way!" 

The couch suddenly lifts away. Wash ducks and Caboose javelins it across the room, but the intruder ducks, too. The sofa accordions against the far wall, sending splinters around Wash, who's pulled a knife from somewhere. But a knife's not going to cut it against the fucking BR. 

While the intruder is still standing from the sofa missile, Tucker charges in. One wild _swish_ around her shoulder that she tries to block with the rifle, and the gun is split in half, dropping useless bullets. 

Then Tucker sees stars and staggers back, jaw throbbing under his helmet. Caboose wraps his arms around her from behind, and she jams her heel into his toes. He drops her and hops back, squeaking, "Ow, ow, ow!" 

Tucker takes a second _swish,_ aim wild, and she bobs around the blade, weaves under his arm, and next thing he knows he's looking at the ceiling. There's quick clangs of armor on armor on knife blade and then another sharp _ZZZTT_ and one more hard _thud_. Tucker hasn't even rolled over and he knows Wash is on the ground. 

"Are you "Private Church?"" she asks harshly. 

Tucker finally (it has not been long enough to be "finally") makes it to his knees. Sure enough, the intruder has a boot on Wash's chest, her knee across his, and a black, sparking, baton across his neck. Tucker's sword and Wash's knife are both a long reach away. He starts to go for it, but then Wash lifts a hand to "stop." Tucker freezes. 

"What do you want?" Wash asks. 

Tucker expects the intruder to growl or shock Wash again. Instead, her head flinches back. 

The pause goes on for too long. Caboose comes up behind Tucker, but Tucker holds out an arm to stop him. Wash's helmet barely tilts and Tucker knows he's glanced their way. Tucker shrugs to Wash. He's only willing to wait so long for this. Blue Team's death count is high enough as-is.

Back to the intruder Wash says, "If we can do this without bloodshed, it's probably to the benefit all of us."

The intruder tosses the baton aside.

Tucker starts to say, "Well that was easy--"

And then she goes for the seals on Wash's helmet and tosses it clear across the room before Wash can even get his hands up. Caboose barely catches it. 

"Wash…" Her stance over him falls apart. She has to drop a hand to his chest to catch herself. "Washington?" 

Then her armor shifts. Not like Tex, to turn invisible, but the color changes. It shifts from black to teal. Aqua. Lightish blue green something or other. 

Wash looks shell shocked. Tucker has _never_ seen him this caught off guard. He starts to say, "Caro…" but trails off, floundering. 

"Wash?" the woman says again. 

"Boss?" 

\--- 

_There were people outside. Maybe they were hostile, but maybe they weren't. Maybe they were Tucker's back-up. Maybe they were someone completely different who just wanted to off CT. Tucker could not have given less of a shit._

_He was done. He was so done here. This had to end. This had to end today._

_...but just in case._

_Tucker stuck his helmet to the door, cranked his speaker volume all the way up, and just listened. Most sound wouldn't travel through well unless someone outside was shouting, or if they were standing close enough to the entrance.He got nothing for a while, which would make sense. CT would want to keep people away from the door. But there were other thin portions of the walls, too. Tucker ran between them until he could make out voices._

_He could just hear, through one portion, “Sarge this place gives me the creeps.”_

_...No. There’s no way it’s_ that _Sarge. Plenty of Sargent officers get called that. Which meant there was more than one person outside._

_The guy outside kept talking. "Something’s really wrong here. I mean, why would they deliberately pull the radio out of their own jeep? And why can't I get a signal on long rage?"_

_Yes! Something was absolutely, definitely wrong here and--_

_Wait. Tucker knew that voice. That's the desk guy that took his distress call._

_“Something does seem out of place…”_

_Tucker had to back away for a second. He had to… he had to get ready. Whoever was outside didn’t know the full extent of what was going on, and they would need help. He had to make a plan. One that wasn’t a fever dream he cooked up with boredom. A_ real _plan._

_There was plenty of ammo with the supplies. They didn't know what might be living inside the temple when they got there, after all, so they'd traveled heavy. Not that any of that mattered, because there was also an array of alien plasma lasers they dug up that don't even need bullets._

_Tucker was also pretty sure remembered enough of the maps to know where he can stick his sword (bow-chicka-bow-wow) on the outside of the temple to make the defense systems go off. If he's lucky -- and he had_ earned _some fucking luck -- they'll go off like they're supposed to and only attack people hostile to Tucker._

_Get out the front door. Take a left. Carving that looks like a boob. Use sword. Fucking run._

_"This is gonna suck," Tucker said, to psych himself up. "I'm gonna hate this. I'm gonna hate this. This is gonna suck.”_

_Through the door, Tucker heard shouting. It was CT. “Who sent you here, what do they know about us?”_

_“Damnit, Caboose, why d’you keep messin’ with the vehicles!”_

Oh of course Command sent Caboose with them. _What, did they think Tucker was going to get sentimental and feel rewarded, finally seeing an old squadmate? Tucker didn’t even like Caboose. The guy just seemed to_ appear _in all the crucial moments of Tucker’s life. Really, what else should Tucker have even expected._

_So, fuck it._

_Tucker swung the blade of his sword past the door and, for the first time in months, it started to move._

\---

"Agent Carolina" -- or whoever she is -- agrees to be locked in the empty Blue Captain's quarters ("You have to know that won't hold her," Wash informs them and is then ignored for two minutes) while they talk in the sound-proof grunt barracks down the hall. It only takes a twenty minute negotiation to get Sarge inside. 

Tucker takes a seat on his cot. Wash takes a seat on his.Caboose is already throwing crayons in a duffle bag. "I'm getting Church back."

“You actually want to go with the psycho lady?” Grif asks. 

“Church would do it for me,” Caboose says with absolute certainty. 

Tucker is pretty sure that he wouldn’t. Or, at least, the Church _he’d_ known wouldn’t. The Church that Caboose brought back with him (the one that’s technically part of the same Church that Tucker knew but isn’t? Whatever, it’s confusing and Tucker decided it wasn’t worth asking after they left that other Church in the snow.) might. He seemed weirdly motivated to actually do things. 

Grif turns to Wash and says, "And you wanna help?" 

Wash hadn’t said anything about it, but now Tucker sees it all over him. He’s been stuck in “thinking mode” for the last fifteen minutes. It makes sense. This Carolina person was his squad mate way before any of the guys were. 

"I thought you and Church-Epsilon-Whoever didn't get along?"

Instead of answering the question, Wash says, "I don't have a lot of options. I've gotten… comfortable. But the UNSC will be back for you all soon."

"You don't wanna go back to prison," Simmons guesses. 

"Yeah."

Tucker feels a defensive wave of… something. "What makes you think they'll even care?" he says. "They overlooked you back at Sidewinder. They didn't even know you shouldn't be a _human_. If it's all buried enough, they might just ship you back to whatever address they gave "Leonard Church"."

Wash thinks to himself for a moment, with a constipated expression, and then drops, with no further preamble," _Leonard Church_ is the name of the missing Director of Project Freelancer."

Tucker waits for the punchline on that. It doesn't come. Suddenly Simmons says, " _Ooooooh._ " He slaps his own forehead, which makes a metal clank sound with his cyborg parts. "So many things suddenly make sense."

Tucker doesn’t share whatever Simmons’ revelation is -- unless that revelation is that people who name AI are narcissists and Church’s whole subsequent personality kinda makes sense now -- but he doesn’t need to. Wash is going with Carolina. Maybe she came back for him on accident, but she came back for him. His escape has arrived. Tucker _gets_ it. 

"It's not like I didn't earn some jail time, in there," Wash admits. "I mean, I got a call out to Doc to check on--"

Yada yada “my dark past” yada yada. Tucker doesn't need another long winded drama thing from Wash. He groans loudly over it. "This is such bullshit."

Sarge, who had somehow managed to be in a room without taking up half of it for once, suddenly speaks up. “This Director guy… He’s the one who got us all tossed here, yeah?”

“That’s right,” Wash says. 

“He’s the guy who screwed all of us over,” Simmons says, mostly to himself. “All of us, the freelancers…”

“Church,” Caboose says. 

Tucker falls back onto his bed and tosses his arms over his face. He doesn’t _want_ to leave here. Well, he _does_ but not like _this._ Not to go on some new bullshit mission to get himself killed. 

But he can’t… he can’t stay here by himself.

“If the Blues are goin’, I’m goin’,” Sarge decides, suddenly. 

“You just can’t handle the idea of Red Team not existing once Blue Team is gone,” Grif says. 

“It’s part of the balance of man, Private! A Blue simply cannot function without at least one Red to keep them in check. Tell ‘im, Simmons!”

Simmons, who will likely die in Sarge’s shadow, says, “We’re taking all the food with us.” 

“I hope you both die before me so I can desecrate your graves,” Grif says. 

Sarge yells, “That’s the spirit!” 

Nice of them, to just _assume_ that Tucker is going with them. 

Except thinking about watching them leave makes something gross -- something _emotional_ \-- twist in his chest. He gets two seconds further into pictureing the empty base, and waiting by the radio for a UNSC call and-- 

Shit. Turns out, Tucker really has regenerated a fuck to give. 

_Well_ , he guesses, _it's never a bad time to start giving back to your community._

First, however, he needs to scrape that fuck out of the bottom of his barrel of fucks. So, he groans long and loud enough to feel it in his chest. He morphs that horrible noise into, "Yeah, okay, let's do it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in summation: I wanted a through-line, for Tucker and for Wash, from seasons 5 to 8 to 10. Tucker goes from not even being up for fighting a prophecy monster, to flying out of that temple like a badass, to picking up this total stranger, to letting that stranger lead their team while just wanting to stand around and talk again. He's picked up braggart tendencies in recent seasons while trying to finally figure out this new role he's adopted, but he _did not_ start there. "Bow-chicka-bow-wow didn't start till season 4. When he got the sword, he didn't bother making the story sound cool when he retold it to Donut later. 
> 
> I guess nothing I've found has really done that work for me, of laying that baseline of who Tucker is from season to season to season, and I think that baseline is what makes Wash a great mentor for him: They're both pretty average guys extraordinary circumstances. They're competent and have talent, but aren't the most gifted badasses. When it all calms down, they just wanna hang out with their friends. Wash and Tucker's arcs have a lot of parallels to them, with Wash just a few steps ahead (I've had this budding essay for s16 as Tucker's Recovery One hmu). Which's means he's been there before. He knows what comes next. When things get dark, he's been there before. He knows the way out.
> 
> I also really wanted that Wash through line of how he got casual and comfortable with the Reds and Blues and just hanging out (doesn't say "sync" either, the Gone Native icon), to having that _dream_ of having The Boss back, to go back to some sense of "normalcy". And to start s10 with this excitement of "maybe I can have both!" only for it to fall apart because his rookie goggles are gone, and he can't follow her anymore
> 
> I love these idiots hmu on tumblr I finally wrote a multichapter fic to completion THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING _CHEERS_

**Author's Note:**

> Entire fic beta'd by [@Aryashi](http://aryashi.tumblr.com/) who is the most amazing enabler of fanfiction


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